Apologies for the delay in posting the next two chapters. I’ve been juggling life problems and writing my latest Freedom Flights episode. Once that was posted on Thursday, I could schedule this post.
In Chapter One, Sparkle thinks about creating a ‘mnemonic’, which I am changing to an ‘acronym’ to be more accurate, although an acronym is a type of mnemonic
I would like to know how often you would like me to post, for instance, three times a week? I realise daily might be too much, whereas weekly breaks the flow.
That is more of a problem if I post short segments. So, second question: what’s the best length? Under 300 words? Around 1,000 words? This time, Chapter Two is 264 words – similar to Chapter One. Chapter Three is 1,706 words, which might be too long. However, there are longer chapters that I’ll have to post in parts to make them more readable.
Your feedback will be much appreciated. Many thanks.
Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.
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FEVERED FUSE
A Snowdon Shadows Mystery
by
Roland Clarke
(Police Procedural Fiction)
**
Chapter Two
Speed Kills
Monday 11th July 2011
Lime-green is not cool. I’m resolute. Well, I try to be.
I wanted a Kawasaki Ninja, even if it wasn’t black. My scooter bored me. Will this blood-red Aprilia motorbike satisfy me instead?
B for Blood not Black. OK.
Speed is the addiction to drive away my frustrations.
But my tad says speed’s another killer he must curb. It’s his job.
I soar around a bend, then open the Aprilia’s throttle down the last straight towards Tremadog. The distinctive blue and yellow markings lurking behind a stone wall warn me and I slow – Heddlu.
I can’t have Sergeant Anwyl’s North Wales Police colleagues reporting his daughter for speeding. Seventeen is never an excuse. I must evade a first offence. Bad career move.
The town is busy, although not heaving like nearby Porthmadog which draws the tourists now the warmth of summer has banished the rain for a few days. Reason to avoid going that way and getting held up. I have a better way to save time. No marks for getting to college late.
The main road north is busy, and I wait for my chance to dive across the roundabout, then cut through to the coastal road along the Llyn Peninsula.
Control the speed. Other adrenaline boosts will come. Time to negotiate traffic.
The shadow of the railway bridge looms. As I slow for the roundabout beyond, a brick dislodges.
It falls. I swerve – into the ditch.
Instinct causes me to smash my bike. Tumbling. Alive.
A second brick. Duck.
Pain and darkness envelop me.
(264 words)
**
Chapter Three
Identity Crisis
Friday 1st April 2016
The blackness lifts like a fog.
Sounds first. Crows cawing – no, jackdaws.
Sheep bleating. Ewes and lambs. Whistles. Commands to dogs.
A distant tractor.
A farm. Familiar and hovering at the edge of my mind.
Smells are an elusive clue. Blossom scents drift in on the cool breeze. Baking bread tempts my nostrils and stirs my stomach. Clean laundry spoilt by sweat – mine.
So hungry. How long have I been unconscious? Or asleep?
Finally, vision. Shafts of sunlight creeping across a wooden floor. Towards the bed with its blood red sheets – wrinkled and tossed off. Embossed bracer undisturbed on my wrist. Black nightdress not hiding the bruises. Superficial. So, something protected me. Motorcycle leathers and a helmet.
As I stir, the nightdress rides up revealing a spiral seashell tattoo on my right hip. Hidden, unlike the red briar roses on my right arm and ankle.
When did I get so many?
But facts fragment like a mirror crashing without end. Like my motorbike tumbling in pieces.
Use that last memory. Bad move as my head throbs. But the accident is an anchor in a storm of memories.
I shuffle the sounds and smells into order.
Home. Well, at the family farm in Snowdonia. Mam must be cooking.
What meal?
The light on the floor suggests middle of the day – lunch?
Once she’s finished home schooling my chwaer. Lack of hearing hasn’t dulled my sister’s mind, and Gwawr has ambitions. Sign language and lip-reading have taught the family to adjust to her world without sound – to understand more.
My problems dissolve to nothing in comparison.
Was the accident connected?
I’ve been confused for years about who I am. My identity as a girl. Is that why I was attacked? If it was targeted bricks on the edge of my vision – edge of my memory?
Concussion causes memory loss, but enough remains.
Revenge. Mine or theirs? I’m presuming it was an attack. Wasn’t it?
Who by? Names taunt out of reach.
Get dressed. Food might trigger clarity.
I open my wardrobe and clues tumble out. Black clothes – tick. Long sleeve wetsuit – tick. Doc Martens – tick. Scuffed motorcycle leathers.
Why aren’t I in hospital? I should have been taken to one.
Why am I hearing lambs in mid-summer? Spring?
How many months have I skipped?
A wall calendar tells me. Five years.
What have I lost? Missed?
I want answers even if my mind won’t co-operate.
Who gave me the extra tattoos? The spiral seashell on my hip makes my heart race. Why?
Choosing the right gear is not hard. Bomber jacket the final touch over a T-shirt. Doc Martens setting off the jeans and studded belt. All black. They trigger a reaction. I tap my bracer. A for Assault. B for Bike. R for Revenge.
A knock at my door derails the thought process.
I respond in Welsh. “Dewch i mewn.”
Nothing happens, even when I repeat “Come in” in English.
I open it. Stare at Gwawr. Or is it? She’s older. Not the pre-teen in my head, but a beautiful teenager. No longer our childhood protégé, but an attractive woman.
Bury the confusion.
Too late. She reads me so well.
I sign, “Head spin moment.”
“We were worried about you, cariad.”
Embrace her. Tears.
My last memory is not who I am. I’m not that speed-obsessed seventeen-year-old.
The gap in my head is a chasm of years.
Hide this turmoil. The holes will vanish.
“I sensed you were awake.” Her smile betrays concern. “Everyone will be pleased. We feared the worst. But we aren’t meant to give clues. Doctor’s orders.”
Standard procedure for amnesia.
How do I know that?
“Mam’s food always inspires me.” My observation impels Gwawr to link arms and lead me down the stairs, saying.
“Always my inquisitive sister.”
Mam is carrying a steaming pot to the wooden table by the kitchen. More names – more memories. Mam’s parents, my nain and taid, sit at either end of the farmhouse table.
Everyone looks at me and cries out.
“We prayed for you to wake.”
“We missed you.”
“Welcome back.”
Hugs and kisses for the resurrected.
“Let’s eat. I’m starving.” Mam’s vegetable soup is superb – thick and hearty. The bread, fresh and memory laden. “I can’t remember the last time I ate properly. Before I left for college?”
Years have passed, but I want a reaction – information.
“Is that your last memory?” Mam struggles to hold back her tears. “Anything else?”
I ensure I’m facing Gwawr as I speak. She’s mastered reading lips, if we enunciate clearly.
“I remember where I am. The family farm, Tyn-y-llyn. Tick – who you all are. And who I am. Yes, crashing my bike on the way to college is the most vivid image, even if some of the details have gone.”
Mam stands up. “I need to call Doctor Vaughan.”
“Is he the one treating my amnesia? If that helps us. I realise the accident must have been years ago. But it’s where my mind returns to.”
And there are fragments demanding attention as they drift on my periphery.
Why? The doctor might clarify – if he wants to.
Childhood memories. Another home.
Before the divorce. Did I cause the break-up? For the same reason I was attacked?
My identity.
But the speeding teenager on the bike isn’t me now.
“Did I smash up another bike?” Searching faces is better – sometimes – than asking simple questions. “That bridge over the A498 was the perfect spot for an assailant. I always slow there. Position myself for the roundabout—”
I’ve been there since. On another bike – a black Ninja.
“Taught by the best.”Gwawr signs the clue.
Who is the best? Motorcycle cops. Tad’s colleagues.
So, the accident had positive consequences – their help. Or was their involvement in place already?
More questions. More rabbit holes for my mind.
Nain and taid grasp each other’s hands – glance at me then each other. Shaking more than old age brings.
“Please, give me time. Everything is there.”
I stand. Touch my toes, then my nose.
Tap my bracer as my tattoos tingle a thought.
S for Siblings.
“Time to walk down to the lake. I have to swim.”
“Not in those clothes, cariad. You have—”
“A wetsuit upstairs. Thanks, nain.”
#
My skin remembers the fabric – warm, protective, close-fitting. Neoprene. Perfect for wild swimming in any weather.
I change, keeping the bracer on as usual.
Gwawr joins me in her suit. She brings towels in case the sun fails us.
We jog to the shimmering water, the llyn that gives our home its name. Generations of Pughs have worked these mountain pastures above the lake.
We lay the towels on rocks warming in the sun. I climb another rock and dive in. It was always safe here. Embraced by the water, the moorland, and the sky.
I dive deep, feet propelling and arms pulling. Breath retained, released slowly. Push for the far bank. It’s possible. Determination.
Fingers touching the bottom.
Rising up, I break surface, goal reached. Gwawr emerges beside me, grinning.
“You remember our llyn.”
“Every ripple.”
But something feels wrong. This isn’t the water I crave. No waves pounding the beach. I grab for a fleeting image, but it shatters leaving just a taste – sea salt.
Why?
The coast road to college in Pwllheli by the sea. Except I’m no longer that teenager.
I dive back into the freshwater. My sister a rippling shadow beside me.
My mind knows but teases me. Sidestep the jagged edges. Lateral game-play. The childhood quirk. Gwawr looks the same age as I was when I crashed. Seventeen with my life unclear. College awaiting a real vocation. Indecisive. Torn between parents. Sheep in my blood but an urge to help people.
C for Crafty and Curveball and Clues.
Gwawr will play by my rules. Not the doctor’s orders.
Back on the home shore, the chance to probe.
“How’s college? Better than mine was?”
She dries herself, humming melodically, then signs.
“My sneaky sister. Research will get me to Uni – history probably. I’m tempted by law. But potential clash. Any suggestions? Advice?”
Law sounds like tad’s calling – law keeper. Heddlu.
“Not farming then.” I glance at my hands. Not calloused enough to be a true Pugh. “None of us had Alwyn’s gift with machinery, except Uncle Ivor tinkering with the tractors.”
“And Owen serves by fighting fires. Uniforms don’t appeal to me. And you always were a fighter. The teenage champion outsmarting law and order. Age has never stopped you – or troublemakers.”
Encouragement to delve. Have I got time? Time is different for a historian than for police like tad. A fighter for justice. What do I believe is worth fighting for? Did I challenge tad? Or did I heed his example?
“For truth and justice – and the Welsh way of life. From sheep to streets. Never a dead end then.”
“Can I leave you, Sparkle? Until your doctor comes. I have an essay to write on the Enigma Code.”
I gesture back to the farmhouse and smile my agreement. Her clues have been enough triggers for my mind.
C for Cryptology as in the Enigma Code.
A for Assault. B for Bike. R for Revenge. S for Siblings.
CRABS
Acronyms – my mind triggers. The rivets on my wet bracer help. And the tattoos tingle with new thoughts.
A number tumbles through my brain. For what? Evidence 101.
BRACERS if E is for Evidence and a second R is for Risks and Riding.
Could tad have persuaded me to join the police? At 18? Could I stand the discipline? I’ve never conformed, even if chapel keeps me from straying too far. But I’ve taken risks – risked the censure of others.
Where did those risks take me? Was the accident the price I paid? Did someone attempt to stop me? Even try to kill me? I had enemies even then and earlier.
But murder seems extreme. Or did I deserve it? I was a target. I took risks and stood up for the underdog. Do I still? Or was that my lesson? A lesson that decided my fate and career.
I skim stones across the llŷn and shift focus, unleashing my mind.
(1,706 words)
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Writing Wings 